Gabriel's Obsession

In the Clutches of Darkness

Gabriel's POV

Having Amelia in my grasp filled me with a rush of triumph so potent it bordered on euphoria. She was mine—my angel—and nothing would stand in my way. Last night had been unbearable, watching her lips touch that pathetic fool's, but patience had rewarded me. The moment she stepped away, I seized my chance

She stirred as I entered the room, the soft rustling of sheets breaking the silence. Her lashes fluttered, and when those mesmerizing eyes finally focused on me, confusion clouded their depths. Her voice, hushed and uncertain, wove through the air like a melody I had longed to hear. Where am I?—a simple question, but one that sent a thrill through me.

Yet, just as swiftly, she shattered the moment. Psychopath. The word left her lips like venom, sharp and ungrateful. Defiance burned in her gaze, an ember refusing to die, and it ignited something dark within me.

She tried to run. A foolish, instinctive act that only fed my fury. The slap came before I could stop myself, a sharp crack of flesh against flesh. Her gasp, her tears—each one a testament to her lesson, a necessary correction. She would learn. She had to.

I had given clear instructions for breakfast. Now, I sat waiting in the dining room, steeling myself for what was to come.

When she finally appeared, descending the staircase with slow, hesitant steps, the sight of her nearly unraveled me. Even in her simplicity—a modest dress that draped delicately over her frame—she was breathtaking. But the redness rimming her eyes, the evidence of her distress, stirred something unwanted in me. Guilt. A fleeting, insignificant thing. I crushed it before it could take root.

"Angel," I murmured, my tone firm, expectant. "Look at me and take a seat."

She obeyed, though the hesitation was evident. I watched as she lowered herself into the chair, her movements wary, her posture too rigid. She was acting the part of the meek, the broken. I hated it. That wasn't who she was meant to be.

I watched her, barely tolerating the way she picked at her food like a lifeless puppet, her every movement slow, mechanical. The meal had been prepared specifically for her, and yet she wasted it with every hesitant bite. The sight of it gnawed at my patience.

"Eat, angel," I said, my tone sharp with irritation. "I don't want any of this going to waste."

Her fingers tightened around the fork as she forced another bite past her lips. Her hands trembled slightly, her reluctance palpable. The weight of my presence, my control over her, was sinking in. She was beginning to understand.

I let the silence stretch, watching her, letting her feel the inevitability of it all before finally speaking. "When you're done eating, pack your clothes. We leave for Paris in a few hours."

The fork clattered against the plate. She froze, her breath hitching, panic creeping into her wide, tear-stained eyes. "Why... why are we going there?" Her voice was a fragile thing, barely above a whisper. "Please... I don't want to go. I just... I want to go home."

Home.

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table, my gaze locking onto hers. "My business in Paris requires my attention," I said, my voice even, unwavering. "And I refuse to be separated from you. Whether you accept it or not is irrelevant. You're coming with me. That is final."

Her lips parted, another protest forming, but I silenced it before she could speak.

"No buts, angel." My voice dipped lower, each word deliberate, edged with warning. "I don't tolerate defiance. Disobey me, and the consequences will be... unpleasant."